Numb3rs of Interest
by EvergreenGirl
Summary: While in New York City for a mathematics convention, Charlie's number is up. Can John and Harold help save the genius mathematician's life? Please review!
1. Chapter 1

**NUMB3RS OF INTEREST**

_**A Person of Interest and Numb3rs Crossover**_

**Chapter One**

Charlie ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and sighed. He glanced out the airplane window before looking back down at the notebook on his lap. Complex mathematical equations were scribbled on the first page. He started to write again, but stopped when his trembling hand shook the pencil too violently to continue. All he wanted to do was finish this one last project before landing in New York City. He'd said his goodbyes to Don, Dad, Amita, and Larry before leaving first thing that morning, and he was almost to his destination. The plane would land in about forty-five minutes or so. That didn't leave him much time to solve his equations. Charlie knew he was nervous, but he wasn't sure if it was being away from home or having to speak at the New York Mathematics Convention that was bothering him. He sucked in a large gulp of air and blew it out just as quickly. Shoving his nerves to the back of his mind, he wrote like lightning, the pencil flying across the sheets of paper. He just finished his math when the plane touched down. After checking into the hotel, Charlie gathered up all of his notes, equations, and algorithms, and headed to the convention center to set up.

)(

John entered the room to see his boss slash partner sitting at his desk. "Have a nice lunch, Mr. Reese?" he asked John without looking up from his array of computer screens.

"You should know, Finch. You're always keeping tabs on me," John replied quietly, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly in a grin.

Harold Finch adjusted his glasses on his nose and glanced at the tall man in a suit beside him. "We have a new number," Harold stated.

"Victim or perpetrator?" wondered John, leaning closer to the screens to skim over the most pertinent information.

"I believe he's a victim. He works with the government, but not in a bad way. He's from Los Angeles, but whoever's targeting him must've known he'd be here for a few days. I don't know anything about a perpetrator yet, but I've looked up everything I can about our new victim."

"I'll get eyes and ears on him, and see if you can find the threat," John said, turning to leave.

"Be careful, Mr. Reese," Harold cautioned.

"When am I not careful?" John asked sarcastically, his face expressionless.

John pushed his earwig down inside his ear canal as he walked along the busy New York street. "Finch, how many days is he going to be in town?"

"He purchased a first class ticket for a flight back in three days. But you need to get to him as soon as possible. For all we know, he could've been in danger the moment he stepped off the plane," Harold's voice spoke in John's ear.

"Fill me in on this guy while I head to the hotel," John requested, disappearing into the crowd of people.

)(

"Professor Charles Eppes?" a blond-haired, blue-eyed man asked after doing a double-take in the huge convention center.

Charlie spun on his heels. He smiled broadly in recognition. "Dr. Louis Harnett! I heard you'd be here."

"When I heard Eppes was already here, I _had _to come see you. It's an honor to finally meet you in person!" Harnett exclaimed, vigorously shaking Charlie's hand.

"The honor's all mine! I absolutely loved your book on astrophysics. I probably wouldn't normally have read it, since it's not as mathematical as other ones I've read, but Larry Fleinhardt recommended it."

"I see you're all set up over here," Harnett said, gesturing to Charlie's laptop and notes on the platform.

Charlie stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Yeah," he mumbled, looking down the long rows of chairs branching away from the stage. "They usually have the platform at the back, but I requested it be put in the center of the room." He pulled his hands from his pocket to grab a handful of papers. "You see, I have this theory I worked out. The placement of the platform with the flow of traffic through the building—"

"Sounds great, but I have to go. We can talk after the lecture, okay?" Harnett interrupted, backing away.

"Um, sure," Charlie answered, a little disappointed.

)(

After "borrowing" a keycard from the desk clerk in the hotel lobby, John swiftly slipped down the elegant hallways to find Room 107. He swiped the card and pushed open the door. Creeping in vigilantly, he scanned the room. "He's not here, Finch," John whispered.

"Well, let me know if you find anything. He's probably at the conference," replied Harold.

"Conference?" asked John.

"Sorry, convention, I misread it. There was a smudge on my glasses."

John could hear the rattling of Harold wiping his glasses. The only things in the hotel room that John could see were a suitcase and a collection of stapled papers. He flipped through the pages, but didn't find anything of importance. Searching the suitcase had the same result. "Are you sure this guy's the victim? I can't see him pissing someone off," John commented, deflating with a sigh.

"The machine doesn't make mistakes, Mr. Reese."

"It hasn't yet. But I'm sure it's possible."

"You don't seem very cheerful today. Did something happen at lunch?"

"No. I'm fine, really, Finch."

John wasn't much for complaining, but that didn't mean he never felt overworked. He liked helping people, and it was pretty much his only option, but he didn't always get enough sleep. After the last case, he just felt burnt out. He could never tell Finch that. It was John's job to be tough, unwavering, and an impenetrable force for good. That's what he was and what he always wanted to be, but at the moment, he just needed some physical and mental rest. But he had to press on, and so he did. As John walked out of the hotel, Finch updated him. "John, you have to get to the NYMC right now! They're going to execute him at the end of the lecture," the sense of urgency in Harold's voice flipped the switch for John's adrenaline.

Running now, John sped down the sidewalk. The convention center was only a few blocks away. "Who's going to kill him?" he questioned Harold.

"Two men named Arnold and Blake Fischer. I'm sending you their pictures right now."

John's cellphone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to look. They were young, college-aged. He replaced his phone and broke into a sprint.

)(

Charlie's lecture was almost over. He just had to make his closing statement. He was delighted to see how well the flow of people worked with the stage layout he'd asked for. When he picked up the last sheet of his algorithm, his finger inadvertently nudged another sheet off the stand. "Oops! Sorry," Charlie apologized to the audience.

As he knelt to retrieve the paper, the all too familiar sound of gunfire erupted. Bullets flew in his direction, but Charlie wasn't hit. Shrieks from the crowd sent chills down his spine. His heart raced, and he crouched low to the platform floor, his hands over his head. When he glanced to his side, he saw the poor man who was onstage with him lying in a pool of blood. Nausea kicked at Charlie's stomach. He peered around the stand, trying to see what was happening. Two shooters were firing seemingly at random, but as Charlie watched, he noticed the methodical way they fired their automatics. It appeared as though they'd been aiming for the man lying dead beside him. A third man in a suit seemed to come out of nowhere, shooting back with a simple handgun. But his aim was amazingly accurate; he took them out in sixty seconds. The shooting halted as abruptly as it started, and people's cries dissipated. When it seemed safe to, Charlie slowly stood up. He glanced at the now scattered group of people. Where did the tall man in the suit go? A hand grabbed him by the arm, pulling him from the platform. "Hey," Charlie protested, pulling his arm away. "What are you doing?"

"You're Charles Eppes?" John stated more than asked.

"Yes, why?" asked Charlie in bewilderment.

"You're in danger. Come with me," John urged, yanking him toward the door.

"Wait! I can't just leave my calculations up there!"

"Yes you can. You wrote them, you can do it again."

"Who are you?!" he shouted.

"A friend," John stated simply.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Charlie didn't take that as much of an answer, but he was a little curious about this mysterious stranger. The man reminded Charlie of his older brother, Don. His FBI agent brother had the same take-charge attitude he saw in this man now. Charlie hurried outside with John, still a bit dazed and confused. They walked a good ways before John hailed a cab. Charlie aversely stepped out into the street after him. John pulled open the driver side door. "Get out," he told the bald man inside.

"What? You can't take my cab!" the old man snapped.

John held up an NYPD badge, saying, "Detective Stills. I need to commandeer your vehicle, sir."

That did the trick. The bald guy hopped out and meandered to the sidewalk, muttering curses under his breath. Charlie climbed into the front passenger seat and John floored it. Charlie grabbed onto the armrest and door for stability. "So, you're NYPD," he said.

"No."

"You know, impersonating a police officer is a federal offense," Charlie explained, agitated.

John's face was blank like a canvas. Charlie furrowed his eyebrows. "Are you FBI, CIA, NSA . . . MI6?" he asked the last one more jokingly.

"None of the above," John replied quietly.

"Then, what, are you a private investigator?"

"I guess you could say that."

"Do you have a name?"

"John."

The rest of the ride back to Harold's headquarters in the old library was in silence. Charlie studied John. The tall man was middle-aged, with dark graying hair. The expressions on his face were so serious. Charlie could tell he had a past that haunted him. John's cool gray eyes spoke the words that never left his lips. The pain in him was buried beneath his sleek façade. But Charlie knew better than to ask. When they reached their destination, John led Charlie down the old halls of books to the room where Harold waited patiently. Charlie stared—unintentionally—at Harold's quirky appearance. The short brown hair and long, thick sideburns threw him off from the sound of his calm voice saying, "Hello, Mr. Eppes."

Harold stood and hobbled unevenly over to Charlie. "Who are you?" asked Charlie.

"You can call me Mr. Finch."

He pushed his glassed up and extended a hand. Charlie coolly slid his hands into his pockets instead of shaking Harold's. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked defensively. "How do you know I'm in danger? Where—where are you getting your information?"

Charlie was obviously still in shock from the attack at the convention center. "I can't reveal my sources, but I can tell you without a doubt that you're in danger," Harold explained. "I'm not certain yet why those men shot up the Mathematics Convention. Do you know why someone would try to hurt you?"

"They weren't after me. They couldn't have been. They had a clear shot and they didn't take it. At first I thought it was a terrorist attack, but then it looked like they were targeting the other man on stage, the employee," Charlie replied, shaking his head.

"We have reason to believe they were there for you," John said. "There's no way they missed. It may have been a warning. Who would want to kill you?"

"I don't know!" Charlie shouted. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

"You have NSA clearance. When was the last time you consulted with the NSA?" Harold asked politely.

"About a year ago, maybe ten months," he answered. "And the last case I consulted for the FBI was four weeks ago. But the man who was arrested doesn't even know I exist, so that's just irrelevant. How much do you know about me?"

"You live in Los Angeles, with your father Alan. Your brother Don works for the FBI, your mother died years ago, you graduated high school at the age of thirteen and attended Princeton, and your currently a professor at CalSci. Your name is Charles Eppes, but most call you Charlie, sometimes Chuck, except Dr. Fleinhardt who commonly refers to you as Charles."

Charlie stared wide-eyed at Harold, his mouth ajar. "How—do—you—know?" he whispered. "Researching me on the internet's one thing, but this is a whole other level."

"I think we should tell him, Finch," John said.

"No! If he knows, nothing will ever be the same. Knowing is a burden too heavy for such a young man to have to carry. It could compromise _everything,_" Harold stated.

"He's a genius mathematician. We may need all the help we can get and he can't fully help us if he doesn't know," John argued calmly.

"You don't understand the ramifications, Mr. Reese!"

"I do, but what choice do we have?" John whispered, raising an eyebrow.

"This conversation is over," Harold snapped, and limped back to his desk.

"Know what?" Charlie questioned. "Tell me what?"

John ignored his questions. "Can I at least go back to the hotel? If only to get some things?" asked Charlie.

"Take him, Mr. Reese," Harold told him. "Maybe the fresh air will help you think clearer."

John pursed his lips and trudged out of the room, Charlie following behind. John drove the taxi back to the hotel. As Charlie was gathering up his things, his cellphone rang. When he looked at the caller ID, he saw it was Don. "Hey, Don," he answered, sitting on the hotel room bed.

"Thank God you're alive!" the FBI agent cried. "I saw what happened at the convention. It's all over the news. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Don."

John watched Charlie closely. "Are you sure you're okay?" Don asked.

"Yes, I'm alright! I'm just a little shaken up, but I'm fine, really, I am. You worry too much."

"I don't think Dad's seen the news yet, so I'll make sure he hears it from me first. Are you going to fly home early?"

"Uh, no, I—I already bought the tickets for three days from now."

"We should go," John cut in.

"But, I . . .," Charlie began.

"Who are you talking to?" asked Don.

"Sorry, Don, I'll call you back later. I have to go," Charlie responded, and hung up.

Charlie snatched up his stuff and rushed out of the hotel with John. After dumping Charlie's stuff in the back of the cab, they hopped in and headed back. "Mr. Reese," Harold said through the earwig, "It looks like someone put out a hit on Mr. Eppes. The Fischers were paid to shoot him."

"But they missed," John stated.

"They weren't professional assassins. It turns out they just wanted some extra cash for drugs."

Charlie gazed at John in confusion. "You're talking to Mr. Finch?"

John looked at Charlie and pointed to his ear, nodding. "Who hired them?" John probed.

"A man by the name of Louis Harnett," Harold replied. "He's an astrophysicist with a display at the convention center."

"Do you know a Louis Harnett?" John asked Charlie.

"Yeah," Charlie answered slowly. "Why?"

John glanced in the rearview mirror. "Is that who's tailing us?"

Charlie craned his neck to look behind the taxi cab. "Oh, hey, yeah it is him. How'd you know?"

"Harnett hired those men to kill you," John stated, making a sharp turn.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

All Charlie ever wanted to do was math. He loved solving equations, teaching applied mathematics at CalSci, and helping the FBI solve cases. But he never thought it would get him in this much trouble. He'd been shot at multiple times in his life now, and it was _really_ starting to piss him off. And of all the people in the world, did it have to be his favorite astrophysicist that was trying to kill him? He had calculated the risks of consulting with feds before, and knew it was dangerous, but he always hoped the odds would be in his favor. Unfortunately, this time they weren't. As John zoomed down the street, Charlie kept glancing back at Harnett periodically. "He's got a gun!" Charlie cried when Harnett held a MAC-10 out the window.

"Get down!" John bellowed, making the car swerve.

Charlie slouched as low as he could, his arms over his head. Harnett fired the gun, shooting out the tires and making bullets blast through the windows. The cab came to a screeching halt, and if Charlie hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, he would've flown through the windshield. "Stay in the car," John ordered.

"Good idea," whispered Charlie.

John opened the door, jumped out, and crouched behind it for cover. Harnett got out of the car behind them, rapidly firing bullets toward the taxi. Charlie really wished Don was there. Harnett started walking closer, still letting bullets fly. John aimed his gun at the astrophysicist's knee and pulled the trigger. Harnett screamed in pain, clutching his leg as he fell. John stuck his gun back in its holster and strolled over to the wounded man. Charlie sat up straight in his seat and turned to look. John grabbed Harnett by the shirt and dragged him back to the cab. John slammed his back against the side of the car. "Why did you order the hit on Eppes?!" he interrogated.

The now frightened man kept his mouth shut. "I asked nicely," John said humorously. "Why do you want to kill Charles Eppes?"

"I—I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone. And I'm definitely not supposed to tell a cop," Harnett admitted.

"Do you I look like a cop?"

The man shrugged unsurely. John asked, "Is someone making you do this? Has someone threatened you?"

Harnett stared at the ground shamefacedly, his eyes filling with tears. "He's got my son, his wife, and my grandchild," he said between sobs.

John clenched his jaw. It _abhorred_ him when people messed with kids. "Who has your family?"

"I don't know. I never saw him. He called me, sent me threatening texts with pictures, and told me who to kill if I wanted them back. But I couldn't kill him myself, so I hired two druggies to do it for me. When he found out what happened earlier, he called to tell me to do the job myself or he'd hurt my son. So I followed you." Harnett put pressure on his bleeding knee with his palms. "Are you going to help me or stand there and let me bleed to death?"

The sound of sirens wailed in the distance. John needed to leave before NYPD showed up. "Give me your jacket," he ordered.

Harnett pulled it off. John tied it tightly around his leg, making a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. "There's your ride to the hospital," John stated when an ambulance turned the corner, headed right towards them. "Ask for Detective Joss Carter, NYPD. Tell her everything you've told me. We'll be in touch."

Harnett nodded, and John moved him to the sidewalk. "I need to borrow your car," said John.

The astrophysicist handed him the keys to his sedan. John hopped in Harnett's car and pulled up beside the cab. "Get in!" he called to Charlie through the open windows.

A still in shock Charlie scrambled hastily out of the taxi cab and into the car. They rode off just before the ambulance made it to the scene. Charlie crossed his arms in an attempt to control his quivering. "Are you okay?" John asked.

"Oh, I'm great!" Charlie mocked enthusiasm.

"Harnett's family is being held hostage. He was ordered to kill you. That's why he hired those hit men," John clarified.

The statements didn't make Charlie feel any better. "Why would someone do that?" Charlie wondered, more speaking to himself than John.

"Mr. Reese," Harold cut in, "I found the threatening texts and phone records. However, the phone's signal is far too encrypted to track. Whoever we're dealing with is almost as smart as me."

"So you can't find them?" John pondered.

"I said 'almost as smart.' I didn't say I wouldn't be able to find some other way to track them down."

"What's he saying?" Charlie inquired.

"Finch can't track a phone signal back to its source," John responded. "It's too encrypted."

"Nothing's too encrypted to crack. Some things may be monumentally harder to crack than others, but nothing is perfect. If I could study it, learn the built in redundancies, there's a chance I could hack the system," said Charlie.

"How long would it take?" John asked.

"Well, depending on multiple variables, it could take anywhere from an hour to days, maybe even weeks or months."

"We don't have days. We may not even have hours."

"Do you have any other data? I mean, besides the phone signals. Any information you could give me, no matter how seemingly insignificant, could help."

John asked, "Finch?"

Charlie waited patiently, held in suspense. "Yes, I heard, Mr. Reese," Harold said. "Besides the phone signal, the picture and messages themselves are the only information I could find. This man is virtually untraceable. There's no mention of the kidnapping or plot on email, social media, anything."

"The picture and messages are the only other data we can give you, Eppes," John put flatly.

"_Picture_?" he asked. He hadn't heard the conversation between John and Harnett, so this was news to him. "I need to see that picture. Maybe I can find out where it was taken. Wait, what kind of phone signal was it?"

"What do you mean?" John furrowed his brows.

"The signal from a landline isn't the same as a cellular one. People use cellphones more often today. Some don't even have landlines. If it came from a landline, we can narrow the search to anyone in the area with one. It won't be a hundred percent, but it's better than nothing," Charlie explained.

"Actually, it was from a landline, Mr. Reese," Harold told him.

"It's a landline," John told Charlie.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Back at the old library, Charlie stood behind the chair where Harold sat, his eyes fixated on the screen. The image of a man, woman, and child bound in rope made Charlie shudder. He put his hand on his forehead, soaking it all in. "The only thing I can tell from the picture is that they're in an outdoor shed. We're looking for a place with one, probably in the back yard," Charlie said, averting his eyes.

"There are over a thousand landline phones in the area. And that's just in a five block radius. There are much more in the entire city. Most businesses still use one in every office," Harold told him.

Charlie groaned a sigh. John paced back and forth down the hallway of books. "Can I see the signal encryption?" asked Charlie.

Harold's fingers danced across the keyboard. The numbers and codes filled the screens. Harold stood. "I'll see what I can find while you work on that."

Charlie sat in front of the computer screens, watching them intently. As Harold walked down the hall, he told John, "I'm going to ask Detective Fusco to see if HR knows anything about this. You should call Carter."

"You just read my mind," John whispered.

The mathematician took a loose-leaf paper off the desk and started writing formulas and equations on it. John watched him as he called Detective Carter. "Don't tell me you were involved in the shooting half an hour ago," she answered, "and the one at the convention center."

"Alright, I won't tell you," John replied, a slight grin forming on his lips.

Carter sighed into the phone. "I suppose you want the contents of the cab's trunk back?"

"Yes, please. That belongs to a friend."

"What are you doing with Charles Eppes?" she asked with a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Didn't Louis Harnett tell you?"

"John, Louis Harnett's dead."

"What?" he asked.

"I thought you were the one who shot him. Made it look like a suicide."

"I rearranged his kneecap."

"Then who 'rearranged' his face?" Carter wondered.

"Meet me at the diner and bring Eppes' luggage," John said, hanging up.

John strolled over to Charlie. "Come on, let's get some food," John said.

"But I'm—"

John pulled him out of the chair by the arm.

)(

Detective Lionel Fusco took a seat beside Harold on the park bench. "What's up?" Fusco queried.

"Have you heard anything about an attempt on Professor Charles Eppes' life?" Harold asked in reply.

"There's a lot of buzz about it. I asked HR. Think it's retaliation for something."

"Retaliation for what?" debated Harold.

"Getting caught maybe," Fusco said. "Word is Harnett was a good choice to pin the murder on. Anyone who knew him said he was obsessively jealous of Eppes. Someone could easily use him to take out the guy and make it look like Harnett killed himself. He's got enough family for collateral."

"That's what happened. Harnett told our mutual friend about his son's family being held hostage. But Charles Eppes is still alive."

"Why would Harnett get killed first?" Fusco fixed his eyes on the distance, absorbed in his thoughts. "This case just keeps getting more complicated."

)(

"If someone's trying to kill him, why did you bring him here?" Carter asked, looking at the curly, dark brown-haired, brown-eyed mathematician sitting across from her.

"I couldn't leave him alone," John explained.

"I don't think Mr. Finch will be pleased when he finds out you tore me away from the encryption," Charlie said to John.

Carter told Charlie, "Agent Don Eppes has been calling the NYPD. Apparently you haven't been answering his calls."

"It's kind of hard to talk to your brother when you're being shot at _repeatedly_," Charlie stated, gritting his teeth.

"Whoever's holding Harnett's family must have killed him," John speculated.

"Someone has his family?" Carter asked.

John nodded grimly. "If we find who wants Eppes dead, we'll find them."

Charlie picked up his grilled cheese and debated taking a bite. He set the sandwich back on its plate, concluding his stomach was still too queasy to risk it. "You know the police are looking for you?" Carter asked Charlie.

"It doesn't surprise me," the math genius replied.

The detective studied Charlie's face. "You disappeared from the crime scene, and they want to question you. Are you sure you don't want to come down to the police station, answer some questions?"

Charlie shook his head. "I can't. I have to help them find this guy."

"Alright, well, your stuff's in my car," Carter said, and stood.

)(

When John and Charlie made it back to the library, Charlie set his things on the floor out of the way. Harold was sitting quietly at his desk. John asked Harold, "Any news?"

"Detective Fusco is going to dig a little deeper. He seems to think someone's trying to kill Mr. Eppes for revenge," he updated them.

"The last case I consulted for the FBI, Don arrested the man. He couldn't have killed or kidnapped anyone, he's in jail," Charlie stated.

"That's irrelevant. It could be anyone you've helped put in jail, or even anyone your brother put in jail without your help," Harold explicated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

A few hours later, after Harold had retired for the night, Charlie was still up, working on cracking the encryption. John sat over by the wall of numbers, thoroughly cleaning his gun. It was close to four o'clock in the morning. Occasionally, Charlie's eyes would slowly close and he'd begin to slouch over, but when he'd feel himself falling, he'd jolt back upright. All he could do to stay conscious was continuously drink cans of highly caffeinated soda. But at times he still began to slip into dreamland. The mathematician was working up a sweat scribbling numbers and symbols on paper. Charlie set the pencil on the piece of paper and leaned back in his seat. He pressed his palm into his forehead, the caffeine and lack of sleep making him lightheaded. He stared, eyes transfixed on the codes on the computer screens. John was feeling a little weary as well, but he was used to it, little did he know Charlie spent many a night awake and writing math on chalkboards instead of sleeping soundly. When Charlie began to lose consciousness again, he started to fall out of the chair, waking up just barely in time to catch himself. "You should sleep," John's smooth, quiet voice blew across the room.

The professor rubbed his eyes, replying in a mumble, "I can't. I have to finish this before they die."

"I want to save them as much as you do, but you're going to hurt yourself like this," John disputed. "I didn't save your life twice for nothing."

"If I have it in my power to save them . . . I just have to," Charlie moaned. "I think I'm almost done. I can sleep when I'm dead."

John's cellphone vibrated in his pocket. It was Detective Carter. "Yes, Detective?" he answered.

"I found your man," she said.

John's posture straightened slightly. "I'm listening."

"A man named Kalen Dakar's been missing since last week. He lives in LA, but he was sighted yesterday at the New York Mathematics Convention. Guess what happened to his brother?"

John put two and two together. "Don Eppes arrested him, didn't he?" he mused.

"Exactly," Carter confirmed. "I wish I could tell you more, John, but he hasn't been sighted since. No one knows where he is."

"So what are you doing up so early?" John asked out of curiosity.

"If you must know, my son's got the flu. I can't get much sleep when he's up all night throwing up, so I decided to use my spare time to do some research."

"I hope he feels better. I appreciate your efforts, Detective," John said gratefully, and hung up.

Charlie was still rubbing his eyes, oblivious to John's conversation. He was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyelids open. With his last ounce of strength, Charlie pressed on, and was stunned when the codes he typed into the computer made the encryption vanish. A map popped up with a red dot pinpointing a location—their suspect's landline. Charlie gaped slack-jawed. "I—I did it," he muttered in awe. "I did it!"

John sprung from his seat to look at the screen. "I know where that is," John stated, grabbing for his gun. "Stay here," he ordered, and jogged outside.

The mathematician leaned back, closed his eyes, and let himself drift off; he'd earned it.

)(

John crept up the driveway, his gun raised. The house was small, but the lot was good sized. The only light came from a flickering streetlamp. The only sound was New York traffic in the distance. As John approached the building, he glanced around the side to see the weak outline of a toolshed. He hurried behind the house and to the shed's door. The shed was timeworn, made entirely of wood, and it reeked of putrefaction. John gazed in the slim spaces between the slats of wood on the door. A young man and woman lied on the ground, their limbs snared with cord. John couldn't get a visual on the child; nevertheless, he kicked opened the poorly secured door. The young man started squirming in an attempt to sit up. John whipped out his pocket knife and cut the couple free. "Are you alright?" John asked as they stood.

"We're fine," the man replied.

The woman sobbed, "But Ariel's not!"

The lady put her face in her hands and wept. "Where is she?" John pressed.

"He killed her," Harnett's son whispered, holding back his tears.

"Where's Dakar?" John urged, his blood boiling.

"When he abandoned us to starve, he said he had unfinished business he had to take care of," the young man put simply.

"Call 911. I'll take care of Kalen Dakar," John reassured them before taking off.

)(

Charlie would've slept longer, only, his stomach's various moans and growls awoke him. John was still out, and the professor had drunk every last can of soda. John had told him to stay there, but it couldn't hurt to go to a convenience store to pick up a snack, could it? Charlie hadn't eaten since lunch, and the sun would be up soon. He stood, stretched his limbs, and found his way out of the old library. He walked a block to the nearest drug store and grabbed a few bags of chips and a water bottle. The cashier tapped her foot impatiently as Charlie searched his pant pockets for his wallet. "Sorry," he apologized, "I'll check my jacket."

Sure enough, his wallet was in his jacket pocket. When he pulled it out, something metal scratched his hand. He clenched his jaw at the stinging. After handing her a twenty dollar bill and muttering, "Keep the change," he strolled out the door, bag of snacks in hand. Charlie stopped at the street corner and felt around in his pocket. He yanked out a small, round object the size of a microchip. Holding it up to inspect it closely, the cool kiss of metal planted on his temple. He turned his head to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. "Don't move," a red-haired man spat.

The mathematician's pulse rate climbed. "Who are you?"

"I'm Kalen Dakar."

He didn't recognize the name. "_Okay_," Charlie said long and drawn out.

"Don Eppes shot _my_ brother!"

Charlie swallowed. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm sure your brother did something to deserve it."

"That doesn't make a difference! I needed him! I was always the smart one, so when my parents could only afford to send one of us to college, they chose me. He had to give up his dreams. It wasn't his fault he didn't have enough money! He stole because he thought it was the only way he'd get some. But your brother killed him instead of giving him the help he needed!" Dakar cried, pressing the gun into Charlie's forehead. "I knew Eppes had to pay some way or another. So I tracked you down, and now the fed will know what it feels like to lose a brother that meant everything to him!"

Dakar's finger wrapped around the trigger, and Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the end. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the surrounding buildings, followed by the thud of a man dropping onto the sidewalk. John lowered his weapon. Charlie opened his eyes when he realized he hadn't been shot. He saw Dakar lying dead in his peripheral vision; he didn't dare gaze directly at the body. John turned to face him. "Are you okay?"

Charlie nodded fervently. He held up the object he found in his pocket. "I think he bugged me with a tracking device."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

By the time Charlie had sorted and packed up his papers off Harold's desk, it was seven o'clock in the morning. Charlie clutched a binder to his chest and looked up and down the wall of numbers. "Are these social security numbers?"

"Yes," John answered.

"So that's how you knew I was in trouble, wasn't it?" pondered Charlie. "You got my number."

John nodded. Charlie studied the pictures of people and the numbers closer. His face lit up as though a light bulb turned on in his mind. "I heard rumors a while back, consulting with the NSA, about a new way to stop terrorist attacks. They really built it, didn't they? A machine," he mused.

John's absence of an answer was just as effective as one. "Mr. Finch," Charlie whispered.

"Yes?" Harold asked when he came in the room.

Charlie whipped around. "He knows," John explained.

Harold glared at John. "Mr. Reese, I—"

"He figured it out," John stopped him.

Harold looked at Charlie with a serious face. "You understand you _can't_—"

"—tell anyone, I know," Charlie finished.

)(

The professor had shook hands with John and Harold before departing for his hotel room. He stayed in New York for the next couple days to answer questions from the police. At the airport, Charlie waited for his flight to board, when his cellphone rang. "Hi, Don," he answered.

"Damn it, Charlie, why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?" Don complained. "You couldn't bother to answer your phone for two days? I was worried! Were you trying to give me a heart attack?"

The mathematician chuckled. "I'm sorry, Don. I was really busy with the police. How's Dad?"

"He's just as worried as me, if not more."

A voice from the overhead speakers in the airport said, "Flight 213 is now boarding from New York to Los Angeles."

"Don, I have to go, my flight's boarding," Charlie stated.

"Alright, but don't forget to call me when you land!" Don ordered, and ended the call.

Charlie grinned and put his cellphone in his pocket. He collected his luggage, strolled over to the clerk, and she verified his ticket. Before boarding, Charlie glanced up at the security camera in the corner of the room and smiled, knowing his new friends are watching over us all.

**EvergreenGirl: **Thanks for reading all the way to the end! :D Please review, I **really** want your feedback! Did you like it? What did you like or not like about it?


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